


He Loves You, So You Can't Help But Love Him Too

by PrincessDesire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 09:46:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17526416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessDesire/pseuds/PrincessDesire
Summary: Sam gives Dean head. An experiment with 2nd person POV. Intended to write a male reader fic, but lost my nerve along the way.





	He Loves You, So You Can't Help But Love Him Too

You always know that you are loved. Being raised on the lam, dead mother, obsessive father, it could be that you never would feel loved, you certainly feel outside of polite society, exiled from everything that normal people have, but you will never go unloved because he loves you. And he loves you in totality, forever, no exceptions. 

He taught you to fish, laughing at your impatience as you fidgeted by his side, two sets of pant legs rolled up as they dangled over the water in the moist heat of a southern summer. He kept adding wet cold cloths, scratchy bleach-smelling (not that you could smell them at the time) hotel room washrags to your forehead when your fever was up so high that even Dad started thinking about taking you to the hospital. He looked scared when you pulled on the amulet you gave him and told him that you would kill yourself if he never came back from a hunt, even stayed behind a few times after that, until Dad really got pissed and forced the issue. 

You’re his world. Especially now, now that you’re old enough to care for him back, to love him back, even if it’s in a new unexpected way. You run the pads of your fingers along his cheek, feel the stubble on the bottom half, the smooth slope to his eyes on the top half. Those eyes look worried, though they needn’t, and you understand why. You’re his baby brother, even if you’re nearly as tall as him now, and that polite society, the one that you both watch from behind the safety of the television glass, doesn’t think that baby brothers should love like this, with fingers and tongues and body parts that grew faster than experience. 

“Sammy.” Your name, the most common word in his vocabulary, sometimes said in anger, sometimes in good humor, exhales from him. He loves you in this new way too, maybe did before you felt it, but to ask would be to voice it and that is forbidden.

You replace your fingers with your lips, cheap mattress squeaking beneath you as your lean over him. He closes his eyes as you run your mouth along his cheek, then his chin, dipping beneath it. You’re not kissing, but feeling your way, memorizing the sensation of parts of his skin on your sensitive lips. There’s the firmness of jawbone here, the flexibility of a skin tag there, all the terrain waiting to be committed to your memory, or, it probably is already there, just like Dean himself is, tucked away in the oddest places in your brain, like how you can’t see a salt shaker without thinking of him unscrewing it, dooming someone, often you, to a ruined meal. He’s an ever-present part of you now. 

Clavicle, just beneath the collar of the ratty t-shirt he’s wearing, now a target for lips and tongue, because tasting is just another way to learn the topography. 

“Sam. You don’t have to…” 

Do this. You know what he’s going to say, but you don’t want him to, so you actually cover his mouth, like you’re children again and he’s playing the copycat game, when you’d get so mad that you’d slap at his mouth then clamp onto it, making sure he couldn’t mock you anymore with his stupid big brother tone. Only, this time your hand is gentle, not commanding but imploring. This is the third time, still new, still scary, and so much scarier for Dean who worries so much about hurting you, about taking advantage. His eyes, worried, are on you and it would be easy to misinterpret the concern when combined with the quieting hand and though you know the real situation, you lift your hand, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with the appearance of a lack of will. “I know I don’t have to,” you assure. “I want to.” 

You return to the collar, tug it down a bit with one finger, stretching the cotton, and touch your mouth to the revealed skin. He sighs. You manage to tug your way all the way to a shoulder before the shirt seam crackles, complaining about the stretch. You share a look. He could get mad, neither of you has extensive wardrobes, he could use it as an excuse to shut this down, or he could opt to remove it from the equation completely, could strip down for you and just allow you to adore him the way he deserves. 

“Let me?” you ask, pulling the hem of the shirt, the bit right down by his jean pockets, upwards in a gesture. 

He lets you, even helps, pulling the circle over his head. You watch the muscles of his belly tighten as he lifts his upper body in the process. You’re still working on your muscles, still mostly bone and skin, but the muscles will come in time. It’s hard not to compare when Dean is lying there in his glorious toxic masculinity and you’re still struggling through your adolescence, still trying like a baby bird to get all the way out of its shell.

“You know that I love you,” you say. He’s heard you say it before, even if he responds with snarky humor afterwards, so it isn’t a surprise. 

“Of course I know.”

You can barely feel the abs, though, underneath the skin of his belly. Your hand tickles the muscles there and he wriggles very slightly. There’s a few hairs around his belly button that have caught some lint. You flick at it with your index finger. The shoulder nearest you has freckles, though not as many as his face. These ones are bigger. Your tongue travels between them and you can just barely feel the raised skin of them. You can feel his goosebumps when you move towards the midline of his body, licking to his sternum. The rib cage is visible here, little horizontal striations between his nipples. It occurs to you, in probably a gross thought, how close you are to his heart in a very literal way.

Dean’s nipple hardens under the breath from your nose as you hover above it. You’d worried, last time, that paying attention to this body part in particular, one that’s generally-viewed as feminine would make uncomfortable. You’d watched his reaction, expecting to be pushed off after having offended his delicate gender expectations. You breathe on it, lips pursed tight to cool the air. It remains hard, but doesn’t further armadillo itself. When you take the small nub into your mouth, he gasps. Last time’s surprise revelation still hits you, because Dean fucking loves it, has such sensitive nipples that you dare not bite down, because even just a firm stripe of your tongue makes his body lurch. The other one is harder to reach, farther across the chest, but you would feel remiss not visiting both. You trail your tongue along the distance between the two points. As you stab with a pointed tongue at the nipple, you allow your fingers to reach beneath you to the wet lonely one. You give it a pinch, barely a pinch really, and his body moves, neither really away nor towards the sensation, but in reaction nonetheless.  

Moving on involves scooting your body down, playing a bit more with the ticklish stomach, wrapping your hands around the sides of his waist as you do. When you suck around the dips around his hip bones just above his jeans, he writhes, even sighs again, two and counting. The skin is so soft in this area, not often exposed to the elements, makes you think of the phrase ‘fish-belly white’. You get a smell of his musk .Close quarters over your lifetime and the last two times, pressed up against him, clinging like a thin branch trying not to break off in a windstorm, have acquainted you with it. It’s more of a Dean smell than his cologne or deodorant, though all three scents have had your interest for longer than he would be comfortable knowing. 

You nibble the hip bones, taking your time with each, applying suction, not with an intent to leave behind a mark (you won’t), but because they’re delicious and because you both know what’s coming, the part of this that’s coming next. 

The first time had been timid, all Dean’s resolve slowly melting away beneath the power of your love and your desperation. It had been hands and four kisses. Your mouth was hungry for him and your jaws had involuntarily opened and shut against his neck, like a zombie in a horror flick, but everything had to be as slow as Dean needed it, and so you’d not kissed his flesh until the second time. You could have lived without the resignation on his face the second time, when he realized it wasn’t a lapse of willpower or sanity, but that this was a thing now, you and he, that there was no going back now that you’d tasted him, felt him squirm against you, washed his come off your leg, though you’d wanted to just let it dry there like a fucked up badge of honor. His look of defeat had changed quickly enough once he got you in his mouth, then his eyes had lit with excitement and enthusiasm, though he commented so many times about your size that it started to make you feel self-conscious. You’re six feet tall. You have big hands and big feet. It only makes since that other things would be big as well. He’d pulled his mouth off of you, big unafraid grin temporarily plastering across his adorable face. “I can’t even fit you all the way!” he’d said, proudly, as though this was anything you have control over. And you’d blushed, wanting the attention off your dick, but also wondering if there were other ways in which you’d fit inside your brother. 

When you place your hand on the large metal button of Dean’s jeans, he sits up, covers your hand with his own. He’s out of breath. You’d been so focused on what your mouth was doing, you haven’t even noticed how worked up he is, how somehow even though you haven’t kissed him, his lips looks swollen. He must have been biting them, you realize with a buzz of arousal. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Dean says. 

Lies. What would you do if not this? How could anything be more natural than to make love to this man who has devoted his life to you? You could no more stop loving Dean than you could survive without breathing. You could tell him this, but he might laugh, might call you Samantha. He might anyway, those defensive mechanisms tricky and firmly established.

“I want to.” Your voice sounds meaner than it normally does, just because you really want to get across to him how you’re feeling. So many times you’ve imagined giving him head that you feel like a pro at it even though you’ve never had any cock in your mouth before, let alone his. 

One of his thumbs moves, slowly, in a stroking motion over your hand in what can’t be reflex because Dean doesn’t absent-mindedly touch you that way. The touching he does all the time is grabbing the back of your neck when he’s proud of you or slapping your leg when he wants you to find the remote control. He doesn’t pet you like this, or at least he hasn’t since you were little. It makes you wonder, just for a second, when the petting did stop, because you do remember it happening. He’d rub your head to help you sleep and sometimes your back when you were just hanging out, waiting for something to happen. At what age did those touches begin to feel inappropriate to Dean?

“I love you, Dean,” you say again. You’d say it every time you spoke if that wouldn’t drive him fucking nuts.  

He closes his eyes, wrestling his (metaphorical) demons. “I know, Sammy.”

With him sitting up, your chests are adjacent, not flat against each other, but touching in places. His face is not far from yours. You study his thick dark lashes, closed still, and his lips, slightly open with his still faster breathing. Oh god, you can see the indents from his teeth along the bottom lip. Would you have heard more sighs if he hadn’t done that? 

If the touches stopped when you were still young, how long ago had the kisses stopped? Had there ever been those? Kisses on the forehead. You remember a time when you’d had a nightmare, something overheard from a conversation between Dad and another hunter that found its way into your subconscious. Dean had climbed into bed, looping a big brother arm around you, and pulled you tight and kissed your forehead. He’d told you silly stories to help you sleep, things about hybrid animals, like an alligator monkey or something, and cars that ran on orange juice. You remember waking up when he’d tried to sneak back to his own bed, but you’d grabbed hold of him and he’d stayed.

You look at the tooth prints, not expecting yourself to press your own teeth to the spots. He jerks his head back in surprise when he feels you on him. You touch a finger to his bottom lip. “You were biting yourself.” It’s some sort of explanation, maybe, for then moving closer and, as gently as a butterfly landing, placing your teeth in the grooves there, your bottom teeth underneath the round beautiful flesh of his lip. He breathes. The breath crosses into your mouth, warms you to the tips of your toes. You’ve always been meant to share the same breath, haven’t you? If you hadn’t learned otherwise in science class, you would think that pure oxygen comes out of your brother, and that you could just live off his air. You feel high from it, and he sits quietly with you there like that, breathing each other in. 

Your heart is already beating strongly in your thin chest, but it resounds like thunder when he kisses you, the lip sliding out from between your teeth and joining its twin to press against your mouth. He opens his mouth a bit and you do the same, kissing like brothers don’t often do. His hand comes up to your jaw, strokes a bit under your chin, and you open your mouth more, inviting him in. His tongue entwines with yours, his hand pulling your face closer, and you try to breathe, but you can’t because even knowing that this passion was destined, doesn’t make it any less miraculous. It feels impossible to love someone this much, even though you’ve been doing it all your life. You might be ready to pass out when he pulls his mouth off yours, but that doesn’t stop you from trying to follow, for just a second anyway, tongue not ready to be abandoned by his. 

His eyes are bright, excited, yet they still peer into yours as though searching for any hint of hesitation on your part, any disgust or reluctance. You smile, panting. “That was… good,” you say like a dork, eloquence having been stamped out by the erection shrinking your jeans. 

“You’re not a bad kisser, Sammy,” he says, voice teasing and light. “Makes sense. You are a Winchester.”

“Oh yeah? Is Dad a good kisser, too?” You realize how gross the joke is, how terribly inappropriate given the circumstances that it is, as soon as its left your mouth. Dean makes a face. Please let that not have killed the mood for good, you think. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

“Yeah, it was.” Dean’s stern voice, seldom used on you these days, now that you’re functioning like a team instead of the sort of master/apprentice thing you used to.

“I bet I’m good at other things, too.” 

“Like what, Sammy?” he asks, his plush lips suddenly on your neck. It’s embarrassing how you begin to tremble. Each time, it gets a little easier, this incest negotiation. Will there come a day when there won’t need to be any convincing, when you can just climb into the shower with him, soap each other up, and make each other come with no words needed?

“Like…” you start, afraid to finish because you’re not a dirty talker. You can learn to be but that’s going to have to come with time, like any sexual ease that you’re building on. Instead of answering with words, you move your hand back to the button. While he kisses your neck, licks your jawline, you manage to smoothly undo his pants with one hand. It’s a fluke, a combination of worn down jeans and a lucky twitch of your fingers, but you’re not going to announce that. Instead, you try to reach into his underwear, but there’s not enough give because of his upright position. He kisses you again, bites your lip, licks into your mouth. His hand pulls the back of your head in close. When the kissing stops, you ask him, averting your eyes a bit as you do, “Can you lay back?”

He does as requested, but does the hard work for you, sliding his pants and underwear off, dick now open to the air, hovering wetly below, and slightly to the left of, his belly button. 

It’s impossible to remember the first time you thought of Dean in a sexual way. Looking back, it feels like something that’s always been there, but something that increased with frequency. That’s probably not accurate, but that’s how it feels. You remember one-off times early on. Lying on a twin bed together, Dean asleep next to you as you watched cartoons, cuddling close, wanting his warmth, and noticing how good he felt against you, how it made your dick hard when you ground it in close against him. Hearing him jack off, the meat slapping sound, before he got more discreet about it. At first you didn’t know what he was doing, then you wondered what he was jacking off to, since he bragged about finding porn, had shown you the cover though he wouldn’t let you look inside. Now, now it’s like 80% of the time, probably because of your crazy amped up libido, and even the times that he should be disgusting turn you on. He’ll be chewing at a hamburger with his mouth open, ketchup oozing down his chin, and you’ll feel your dick spring to life, wanting him to go at any part of you the way that he does his food.

Now, he’s spread out before you, naked, hard, and looking like a centerfold himself. You’re pretty sure that each individual molecule in your body is quivering with want. He’s got a standard cocky expression on his face, wouldn’t be your brother without it, but you can tell that he’s nervous. You shuck off your clothes before crawling onto the bed between his legs, your bony knees against his thick calves. You start on his thighs, mouthing, licking, smelling the delicate skin there. You move upwards to his balls. It’s concentrated musk here, strong but pleasant and so Dean. The sacs are looser than yours, licking at them makes the little biological ping pong balls inside them move, seeking warmth and evading cold or danger. Dean’s legs are bent, and you can see strain in the hamstrings, as he tries so hard not to be ticklish about what your tongue is doing. A dollop of pre-come drips from the head. It’s clear but thick, moves like honey to land on the flat bare bit above his pubic hair. 

You rub your index finger into it and bring the glob into your mouth, let it rest on your tongue as you focus, eyes closed, on its taste. This is what your beloved, the man who has pretty much raised you, tastes like. It doesn’t taste like much, a dab of sweet. You’ll need more to decide what you think. He’s watching you, you notice when you open your eyes. 

“Damn, you look like you really wanted that.”

You smile. “Just now getting that?” you tease. You want more. You want everything. 

You lean forward, putting your weight on your hands and your hands on his knees. The head of his cock is large, giving it a mushroomy appearance, and there are tiny little beads dotted around it. You lick at the still wet hole before attaching your lips to it and sliding down around the whole thing. Your own cock twitches miserably as your mouth is filled with his. You take him down until your bottom lip nearly touches his balls and your nose is pressed against his pelvis. You can take him all the way. You feel proud and excited, maybe a little exultant since he hadn’t been table to do the same with yours. 

“Fuck! Sammy!” he says urgently yet reverently, his hands gripping onto the monotone comforter. 

You slide back up, taking great care to keep your teeth behind your lip. Higher up on his cock like this, you can breathe, and there’s more room to lick the head from inside your mouth. It feels less impressive though, so you again slide back, taking all of him back down. He makes great sounds when you do that, ones that you swear you can feel within you. That’s all the encouragement you need to do it, moving in a steady motion up and down his dick. The taste of him is combining with your saliva, making everything wet and organic. The angle is hard on your neck but you look up at him from where you are. His eyes are closed, his mouth open, his hands clenched tightly, moving upwards as though he intends to tear the blanket apart. You’ve never felt so powerful, never felt like you had so much to give. You want to give it all. He’s your brother and he deserves no lesser tribute than all of yourself. 

Giving your lungs a reprieve, you lick again around the head, sucking it into your mouth, playing with the small pinched bit on the top above the head. The rounded head sides are so thick that you can hold them within your lips and you do, just so that you can feel their plumpness. Its veins are less pronounced than on yours, but you still let your tongue feel the ridges of the few that you can spot. But you’re being selfish, enjoying this part of your brother that you’ve been denied access to in the past. There are still a few more spots, well, probably many more spots, that you intend to become acquainted with, though one in particular you’re sure will take a lot more convincing. 

You want to give back to him, to thank him for the opportunity, so, though it’s humiliating, you tell him, “I love your dick.” The blood immediately rushes to your cheeks. 

“Everyone does,” brags Dean. Not that you need the reminder that this is not new territory for him; you’re not exactly in a position to make any monogamy demands...yet. Still, you bite his thigh, just a minor punishment, a snap of teeth on the sensitive skin. He surprises you by moaning instead of complaining. How is that after nearly 20 years together, you’re still learning things about each other? You bite the other side, for balance, for an experiment. His dick twitches next to your head, another glimmering bead dropping from it. You don’t hesitate, licking up the puddle and then returning it into your mouth, eager to capture any other fluids it cares to share with you. “Sam…” he sighs. 

You’re so hard that you believe the axiom, that you really could hammer nails with your erection. Dean’s cock is in a similar state, but it’s also so plush with its mushroom head. You like the way it feels, going from a wide O to a medium O as you pass over the top and then back up again, like those carnival games where you can’t touch the rings to the side. Only, you keep your mouth tight against him, sliding smoothly, hesitating for a moment at the bottom, wanting him to feel just how full he’s making your mouth, how much effort you’re putting into keeping him there and holding your breath. 

His hands have returned to tearing at the comforter, his legs moving, feet traveling up and down, like walking only with his feet, the rest of him still flat and stretched across the bed. He’s so into this, so fucking worked up by the things your mouth is doing. You can taste more precum, and even though it’s a slight taste, it’s delicious, and you can feel the pulse of Dean’s heartbeat in his cock. He’s getting close. You moan at the realization that soon he’s going to come and you’ll have made him do it. His body lurches, maybe at your noise, maybe at the way you’ve started bobbing your head faster, and he makes little desperate sounds. “Fuck… Sammy… you’re gonna make come.”

Yes, you are. 

One of his hands is suddenly on your head and he presses you forward. He must be pretty far gone to be doing that, but you don’t mind. Fuck breathing; it’s not nearly as important as getting Dean off. You tighten your mouth, apply more suction, unsure if it’s too much until he shouts and jerks, calls your name, pushes hard on the back of your neck, and, finally, comes hard like he’s never gonna come again and he’s making it count. Your mouth is flooded with him and you have to swallow it down because you can’t let go and there’s too much for the come and the cock to be there at the same time. It’s warm, strong, and sour. The pre-come tasted better, but you feel like a fucking star for making him spill all the way.

He’s panting like he’s run a race. You pull your lips off and his hips lurch away from you, cock too sensitive now for any touch. You smile up at him. His eyes are closed and he doesn’t notice. “Fuck, Sammy. Jesus. Your mouth.”

You wipe at your lips with the back of your hand. “Yeah, what about it?”

“I take back everything bad I’ve ever said about it.” You laugh. He continues. “Who knew flapping your gums all the time would make you so good at giving head?”

If you wanted to be mean, you could easily do so. His tired dick is right there in front of you. Quite a vulnerable time to be tossing out insults. You don’t want to, so you let it pass, climbing up onto the small bed with him. He wraps his naked body against yours, enfolds you in his arms, puts his head against your neck. 

“Love you, Sammy.” 

You know he loves you. It’s evident in everything he does. He lives for you and now, you do too, now that you’re old enough to understand how lucky you are. You didn’t need two parents, a two-story house in the suburbs, a bicycle with a loud horn on the front. You had Dean, a bow-legged, shit-talking, soap-star-hot big brother. “Love you too, Dean. Always will.” 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] He Loves You, So You Can't Help But Love Him Too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943332) by [PrincessDesire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessDesire/pseuds/PrincessDesire)




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